The Taste of Honey
by Maria Sunderland
Summary: Set after the events of Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta have grown closer, to the point where they even live together. But his flashbacks are getting worst, and one day, the unthinkable nearly happens. However, an unexpected visit might finally make a life changing difference for the both of them.
1. Chapter 1

_This idea stemmed from a roleplay session with a good friend of mine. It's nowhere as dark as __**The Death of Peeta Mellark**__, which I'm still working on by the way. I'll be alternating between both. The writing for this is simpler, since it's in Katniss' POV, as opposed to an omniscient view._

_I do hope you enjoy. Please review and comment. Don't be shy!_

_Luv,_

_Maria_

_**Chapter 1: Catching A Mockingjay**_

I hit the wild turkey in the eye. Clean shot.

It's taken me months of practice to catch up to the archery skills I once possessed, and even then, I've been missing more then I used to. Either I catch the animal in an awkward way that makes it less appealing to buyers, or I miss altogether. Still, it's better then three months ago when I grasped my bow for the first time since the end of the war. Pulling the string alone was exhausting and painful. Now it almost feels natural again.

I set the turkey into my game bag with the other one I caught. Squirrels have been more evasive, though Peeta reassured me it's likely only a matter of time. After all, hunting is in my blood.

Murder and destruction also flows through my blood. It's like black smoke filling my veins, overflowing my mind. I can cast off the horrors I've lived, the horrible things I've seen and done, but it's short lived. It returns with the force of a heavy mace. I'm reminded of it all as I cross the Square of District 12. Most of the Square has been rebuilt. It's brand new, yet already the walls of the new buildings, the shops, the Memorial Center and the Justice Building are already covered by a fine, dark dust. It's as though the old remnants of what we used to represent - starvation, death, pain, fear - refuse to be ignored, coating all that is new to remind us where we came from. Honestly, it sends chills up my spine. For all I know, some of this dust could still be remains of the people who lost their lives during the bombing.

The thought has my chest tighten and I rush across the Square, feeling eyes on me. Most are apologetic, kind or even seem to venerate me in some way. I was the Mockingjay, their deliverance, the symbol of a war won against a force once thought unstoppable: the Capitol. I was the Girl on Fire, with the burns to prove it, though I wear what needs to be worn to conceal most of the scars across my body. Others hold a gaze of hatred. Even though they are free, they despise me. I was the Mockingjay, their deliverance, but I was also the symbol of death, their families and friends burned by the bombs meant to hurt and shame me. They are few in between, but those are the ones I feel the most. They're the most powerful ones and even as I try to ignore them, they bore through me like burning stakes.

I'm thankful to reach Greasy Sae's home and restaurant, away from casting eyes. It's more like a small place where people eat then a full on restaurant. After seeing the luxurious restaurants in the Capitol, even this rebuilt place doesn't come close. Maybe I should compare it to a small dinner or a bar. Either way, people have found a nice refuge there, and at night, they gather to laugh and play table games. I suppose it's good for morale, but I want no part of it. I don't go through the restaurant itself because there will be more looks from customers. Instead I go through the backdoor where I find her cooking something that makes my stomach growl and my mouth water. I don't know what it is, but it smells amazing. I set my bag on the counter.

"Two of them this time", I say. "But I couldn't catch more, sorry."

"Oh, don't apologize, dear girl", Greasy Sae assures me with a wave of the hand. "Two's well enough, thank you. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing."

"Katniss -"

I cut her off. "Nothing. They're scrawny, and I couldn't get the first one in the eye like I wanted so the meat will be stressed and tougher."

I hear her sigh as she returns to her stew, adding herbs, mixing them in. The smell becomes even more invigorating and my stomach growls loudly. Immediately I feel a blush of embarrassment creep up my cheeks as she looks at me, her head tilted curiously.

"You always have a reason," she shakes her head. "And apparently you're all sorts of hungry. At least let me serve you something before you disappear for the day."

I want to protest but already there's a plate of that delicious stew set on the counter in front of me, and my hand moves on its own accord, going for the spoon, dipping it in the thick broth and bringing it to my lips. It's almost scorching hot, but I take it in anyway, and as I guessed from the aroma alone, it's heavenly. She's come a long way since her wild dog and mint leaves watery soups. This is not make believe beef, this is beef.

"Why won't you let me pay you when everyone else does", she asks me as she sits beside me on a stool.

"Because you took care of me when I returned", I respond simply, not looking at her. I despise owing people, but Greasy Sae is one of those I'll likely never repay in full in my lifetime. She brought me meals and tended to me while I let myself descend into oblivion when I returned to District 12. She cut my hair evenly as it grew back and applied moisturizing cream to my charred, scarred and dry skin, making sure none of the battle wounds would re-open and become infected. When I came down with pneumonia, she tended to me like I was her own daughter. More so then my mother, who remained in District 4 despite news that I might not make it. As the odds appear to be constantly in my favor, I survived even though I was hoping I would finally die. But today, I owe her my life and everything that I am. I don't regret living despite the nightmares and the glares I get. So no, I won't have her pay a dime even if I bring her a horde of elephants. Also, there's the fact that she doesn't really _need_ the game. Not under the new regime of Panem. But it helps me. It's therapeutic to be hunting again, and bringing food to someone, apparently, makes me feel like a good person.

I hear her sigh again and I shrug. It's the same old song, same old scene each time I bring her game. A broken record, as they used to say. I finish my plate and already I regret eating it so fast because it was so good. I could have a second or third bowl. Probably a forth. I'm not starving like before the days of the Capitol's control. I'm just so used to being hungry - my whole life, in fact - that sometimes I forget to eat until I realize it's essential. People have been eating much better these days, with weekly deliveries, which used to be reserved for the wealthy Capitol region alone. Now every District gets its share of food, and people are more plump, healthier, and generally happier.

As if she read my mind, she offers me a second plate and I can't say I'm disappointed. I take a few sips, and on the fourth, I hear the introduction music of the newscast on the television in the restaurant. It's not a big television, not like in the Victor's Village, but because it's morning and there's not a lot of people in yet, the sound easily reaches us. I don't like it. I don't watch the news, or television much for that matter. Peeta will watch some of the cooking shows when he has time, but even that gets on my bad side. Maybe it's because people in the Capitol still look like the overly colorful cupcakes they make - and even casters from other districts, looking tern and grey in most cases, leave a bad taste in the back of my mouth.

Or maybe it's because I remember the overexposure I got during the time of the Games and Rebellion. Whatever it is, I hate the blasted things and it's only still in my home for Peeta... or Haymitch, because he broke his during a drunken fit.

Greasy Sae leaves her stool and leans on the door frame leading into the restaurant. As she watches the images and listens to the newscasters, I keep eating greedily, drowning the noise from the other room.

"Dear lord", I hear her sigh. I see her shake her head, her fingers drawn against her thin lips.

Immediately I become tense. Every little thing sets me off these days. A glass falling. A child's shriek which I'll realize later really was just laughter. Now, Greasy Sae's concern.

"What is it", I ask, though frankly I'd rather not know. I'd rather cast it out and ignore it all.

"President Paylor was attacked this morning during a conference." I give her a long, hard look. No, I don't like the news. I don't like all that is bad that comes with it, because there's always a bigger ratio of bad news to the good ones.

Paylor... I remember her fondly. I wanted nothing to do with politics, but when I heard she'd been elected, I remember feeling happy for her and for the whole of Panem. Paylor was a good woman. "They say she's in intensive care right now, but other then that, nothing else."

"Oh", is all I manage to respond. What else am I supposed to say anyway? It's not like I can be of any help from where I am, and besides, I don't want to be helpful. Whatever I had to do with the whole of Panem, I'm done and over with. Greasy Sae makes no comment on my indifference. She knows me well enough by now to know my train of thought.

I finish my bowl and thank her. I don't really want to overstay my welcome, and this talk of Paylor has made me uncomfortable. I'm about to walk out the back door and return home when Greasy Sae's voice interrupts me.

"You should stay home tomorrow. They just mentioned District 12 is next in Haven's path", she warns me. Haven is the name that was given to a rather large storm that has been devastating Panem this last week. It was named after the first Victor of the Hunger Games. Apparently, in the old days, they used to give names to storms, and because we're trying for an approach that resembles this when and where, we should also name storms as though it's as important as everything else. I think it's useless, but whatever floats New Panem's boat.

"I'll keep that in mind", I say and step out back into the square.

As soon as the sole of my boot touches soil, I feel something's off. I can't exactly pinpoint what it is or how I know. It isn't the wind that has picked up, mysteriously following Greasy Sae's warning; there wasn't a single breeze when I walked into the restaurant. It could be that there's suddenly hardly anyone around when it was relatively crowded earlier. Wait, where _is_ everyone?

I look around the deserted market area, stroll past vendors who have literally abandoned their shops. Since the fall of the old regime, there's been quite a few people who have taken to looting and stealing. Stray Dogs, they're called. Now that there's no restrictions to go from one District to another, some people have taken to traveling between them by foot as groups, terrorizing the populace, mostly small town markets. It's never happened in District 12, but it's just a matter of time in my opinion. For shop keepers to leave their precious belongings unattended rings alarm bells for me.

I feel my chest tighten painfully. For some reason I know. I know where everyone is and as I skip into a jog, then a run, I feel my temples begin to throb. My instincts tell me to turn back. My instincts tell me there's danger ahead and lord knows I should trust them by now. Yet it's a pull, a calling. Stronger then me by a mile.

I find the crowd, easily fifty folks, stacked in front of Mellark's Bakery like a bunch of sheep. They stay a distance and soon I understand why: something crashes through one of the windows, followed by a blood curling scream of agony from inside. It hardly sounds human. There's so much pain laced with that shriek that I visibly shudder, my feet rooted like the rest of the crowd.

"Peeta...?" My voice hardly sounds like my own. It's low, trembles, swims in my head and sends a cool wave to the tips of my fingers.

One by one, they turn to look at me. I hear a few whispers, _hush hush _and _oh look, it's the Everdeen girl_; _it's Katniss_; _miss Mellark is here_, (they never know what to call me these days and frankly I'd rather they didn't address me at all) and one by one these people, some of which have moved to District 12 recently and whose names I don't care to learn, look back at me. They wait for me to do something. I just stare back at them in disbelief. Why has no one done anything? Why has no one moved? Why are they waiting on me?

There's another cry from inside the bakery. Another window breaks with the weight of what I assume if a bag of flour. The sound of Peeta's mewling acts like a switch to the crowd, and they make way for me. They're not even looking at the bakery anymore. It's me they're looking at. It's me they wait on.

That only angers me further.

I huff and pace through them as they scatter out of my obvious trajectory. I send each one of them an accusing glare. Each and every one. They look as though I stunned them, next gazing at their feet. And then I realize that what I saw from them wasn't expectation. It wasn't like the looks I get from people who see me as Panem's circus attraction. What I saw there, plastered all over their features, was white fear.

And then I know. God, I know. It's us they're afraid of. Peeta and I. And why shouldn't they be? I killed on countless occasions, for the games and outside the games. Some for my survival... others on impulse. There was reasoning behind each and every death, I tell myself, but even I don't fully believe it. So why shouldn't they be afraid of me? And Peeta... Oh, Peeta, who deserves none of this, a moment away from a flashback or a blackout at every hour of the day, every day, for the rest of his life. And here he is, thrashing the bakery he rebuilt only months ago. I wonder what triggered him this time?

So why shouldn't they be afraid? To even lifelong residents of District 12, we're freaks. Muttations of the Capitol. Brainwashed or used. We can't be trusted.

I give them a hard, long glance as I walk among them, still clearly not belonging, and make my way to the building. I hear Peeta inside, wonder if anyone else is in there. I don't bother to knock. No good would come of it. It might just unnerve him twice as much, make him think he's hearing gunshots instead of my fist on the door.

I have no time to assess what I see. I'm sucked in, pulled inside by near inhuman strength. The world spins with dim and bright colors, some of which I hardly have time to associate with frosting, when I'm hurled to the floor violently, straddled. I hear a laugh, something off-key, something alien. It rings high, spreads into the bakery, makes the flour dust scatter around us.

And then Peeta's nose is hardly an inch from mine, hands tight against my shoulders, keeping me pinned to the wooden floor. His breath is warm, burning, and his eyes are wild. The eyes of a lunatic, eyes I can only associate with venom, which I'm sure I can smell on his breath. Acidic; lemon like. It makes me scrunch my nose.

He lifts my shoulders and slams me back down so hard I hear my right shoulder pop and my head spins.

He snarls, his voice low, grating. "Hey, Mockingjay. You here to finish what you started?"

End of Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

_This idea stemmed from a roleplay session with a good friend of mine. It's nowhere as dark as The Death of Peeta Mellark, which I'm still working on by the way. I'll be alternating between both. The writing for this is simpler, since it's in Katniss' POV, as opposed to an omniscient view._

_I do hope you enjoy. Please review and comment. Don't be shy! Thanks for the amazing review so far!_

_Luv,_

_Maria_

_**Chapter 2: Down In The Valley**_

I'm trapped. My shoulder burns, and Peeta's hand is closing dangerously around my throat. It doesn't squeeze just yet. It keeps me in place, digging cracked, bloody nails into the thin skin of my neck as a warning whenever something as small as a strand of hair moves out of place.

His eyes, I notice, so close to mine, once so blue, now black with dilated pupils, bare the weight of terrible secrets. He's never told me what happened to him during his forced stay in the Capitol. Other then the obvious injection of Tracker Jacker venom under the guise of my name and face, I still, to this day, have no idea what they did to him; how they broke him. I only know how they sowed him back together into a puppet that couldn't even be considered a shroud of the boy with the bread. They'd reconstructed a weapon and like a rabid dog, sicced him on me. After intense therapy and days of edging the brink of insanity, he'd returned to me, though not completely. Never fully. And now, as I lay pinned to the wooden floor by the firm, strong hands of a man who can throw a hundred pounds sac of flour through a window effortlessly, the boy who fed me years ago isn't here with me.

And I'll be honest, it hurts. Not physically. I can take that. I've been beaten, burned and shot. I've been on the receiving end of morphling withdrawal. But those, all of those, were nothing compared to the anguish I feel whenever I see Peeta in the unhinged state of the muttation the Capitol turned him into.

From the corner of my eye, I see something glimmer with the light of the broken window. A spatula, I think. I can't be sure, but whatever it is, it's the only chance I have to get him off me. I reach for it, extend my arm, and then hot pain travels all the way to my fingers when Peeta's knee slams down on it, effectively blocking me from the only edge I may have had.

He gives me a long, hard, demented look. No, not demented. Highjacked. I have to remind myself this at all times. Would that make me love him less? No, absolutely not. Of all things, I'm as broken as he is. And together, we make up for the lost pieces. We fit like puzzle pieces do. Sometimes, though, you have to dig deep to find the right ones that fit.

I quietly curse at myself for not being more vigilant. I didn't knock, but I also didn't exactly pay attention because my mind was far back, down the curb with the crowd of terrified people. So terrified, in fact, that none has come to help me, and this even as I escape a shriek, one I know at least one of them outside would have paid attention to. Peeta's hand rises and he backhands me. The cry dies in my throat.

My cheek burns hot - and no one comes.

It's only Peeta and I. I try to make sense of that. They fear us, I get it. But to let someone lie in peril; I'm a bit flabbergasted at the idea. Within a millisecond, I put myself in these people's shoes. I'm standing outside the bakery. Peeta Mellark has lost his marbles ( I heard that from the seamstress once and nearly ripped apart the brand new dresses she'd finished. In fact, she instructed me to '_stay the hell away from my shop, you lunatic'_. She's one of those who sends me reproachful glares when I go through the market. ). Katniss Everdeen, dangerous Mockingjay, has just stepped in the bakery and things aren't looking good. She screams. I hear the undeniable sound of the strike of hand, not unlike Peeta's mother years ago. Indeed, things are looking grim. But them being here has put District 12 on the map. It's a little too popular for comfort. Now even Capitol people wander, look at us like we're paintings or sculptures in their abstract museums - roaming skeletons of lives past. People like, for example, Effie Trinket. So, let the star-crossed lovers take it out on each other. Ruin each other. Destroy each other. Maybe then Panem will lose its interest if their stars have extinguished. No, I won't go in. Let someone else try first. And no one does because they have the same train of thought as I.

No one comes.

I feel sick, thinking this way. I feel sick with the realization that I'm right. If Haymitch had been among the crowd outside, he'd have rushed into the bakery and restrained Peeta to some extent, because unlike these people, he knows what it's like to be who we are. He understands. But he isn't here, probably passed out on his couch back home, unaware of the world around him.

Peeta still breathes on my face, bursts hot air upon me. I can still smell the venom on his breath, acidic. It's a mixture of raw lemons and digestive fluids. It makes me gag. He's so unbalanced within his own tortured mind that he can't decide what to do with me. He doesn't need to say it. I know there are so many things flashing in his mind, ways to kill me and make it slow and painful, ways the Capitol instilled in his subconscious. His eyes move frantically left and right the same way they do under closed eyelids when asleep. It makes me feel dizzy.

"It. Won't._ Stop_. It's. So. _**Loud**_", he hisses through clenched teeth. "But I know how to make it stop. I'll make it stop. Like you made all of _them_ stop." He barks into another bout of frenzied laughter and reaches somewhere above my head. By now I'm breathing so quickly, so hard, that my lungs feel on fire. I can't let this go on longer. I have to snap him out of it.

I make an attempt. "Peeta?"

I see stars. Now it's the other side of my head that feels like it was struck by lightning. I think he punched me this time. I hear him roar, something akin to a wild, malignant animal.

"_**DON'T**_ you speak my name, _mutt_! You don't deserve to! Not after all the pain you've caused me!" I see a flash of light near his hand. This one, unlike the spatula, is much brighter and far more dangerous. His fist is closed around the wooden handle of a large knife he's used for god knows what. It's covered in red jam and thick blotches of congealed muddy flour, and soon, it will be covered with my blood. As if to confirm this, he add: "I'll skin you like you did all the innocent _people_! I'll _**burn**_ you like you burned my _family! MY __**FAMILY**_!"

I feel my heart leap. I have no doubt, in his state, that he could make due with his promise of hurting me as he thinks I hurt his family and friends. The blade is large, thick, and it scares me. It scares me even more when he brings it under my shirt. Instinctively I retract my stomach in an attempt to get the sharp tool away from my vital organs. The blade cuts through my black shirt like a hot knife in butter with only a flick of his wrist and my upper body is exposed. I feel a blush of embarrassment creep up my cheeks. It isn't the first time he's seen me bare. We've had plenty of moments, in the last few months, to explore. But this is different. Completely different. There's no arousal and the only lustful expression I see on him rhymes with my death.

"I want to see that thing you call a _heart_", he growls."See how it _pulses_, twists and swallows tar. I want to _**SEE**_ it twitch in my hand when I do to _you_, all the things you did _**to THEM**_!"

He raises his hand, twists the knife a little too expertly until he's holding it down and only as it suddenly comes down do I find a voice I thought had died in my throat. It's a croak, and the thickness in it reminds me of something moist breaking apart on a wall. "Not real! Not _real! NOT REAL! __**NOT REAL**_!"

But my words don't seem to phase him at all. The blade finishes its trajectory. I feel a burn, a sharp pain as my flesh splits open from the pressure of the tip of the knife. It's over now, I think. No one has come in. No one has helped.

I realize quickly that the radius of pain is small, not very deep, and I also note that my eyes are squeezed shut. When I open them, Peeta's crouched over me, his back curved like a feline, similar to Buttercup when he sees me coming to him a bit too fast thinking I'm up to drown him all over again. His face is contorted into grimace, wrinkled around the eyes with the strength it takes to keep himself together. His face glistens with sweat, rolling down his forehead, across his cheeks, pooling at the tip of his nose like tears. He groans, shifts, repositions. He doesn't let me go.

I look down, finding the tip of the blade has punctured my skin above my left breast by less then a quarter of an inch. I don't breathe. I fear my chest swelling would mean I'll finish what he started on my own and drive the cold metal further into my body.

I gaze up at him again. He hasn't moved, but he's trembling uncontrollably. He's fighting with himself, clutching the handle of the knife so tight between both hands that his joints have turned white. He's fighting the illusions, and that means he heard me! It gives me a glimmer of hope. I take a sharp intake of breath, small, because the foot long blade is still embedded in my skin. I only need enough to form a few words.

"Peeta, it's _not_ real." I say this as a whisper, between he and I. So close like this, I'm reminded of nights spent home, nights where he would hold a frosting cone in a similar way, sculpting delicious flowers upon my bare skin. I feel my eyes burn, my vision becomes a blur, shapes and colors of what was once Peeta resting above me, panting as though he's ran for hours non-stop, and I have to fight upcoming tears, a need to burst into tears, because I'm about to lose him. He's so far gone, worst then any other time. He might never return to me. Never use me as one of his canvases again. Longing for a man like this, I never pegged me for such a woman. There was the illusion of it, back then, with Gale, or even Peeta when I was stranded in District 13. But this... This is something so strong it _hurts_. And I want that hurt to stay, because it also makes me feel so alive. And I might lose all of it.

"Peeta, _please_...", I say and I hear myself choke on my words. "Whatever you _think_ you saw, it's _not_ real. District 12 is rebuilt. Panem is free. And you and I -"

"_Shut __**UP**_", he cuts me off; releases another agonizing howl. He springs to his feet, hurls the knife across the room, out of my line of sight. He grabs a small table which somehow evaded the carnage he's caused thus far and flips it over in a renewed fit of rage. As though the sound of it crashing against the wall scared him, he sinks to his knees, hands clasped on each side of his head - pulls on his hair with a cry.

By now Haymitch would have told me to go. Leave him be and let it pass. He'll come back on his own. But he also knows I could never leave him like this. What I do next is a leap of faith, one that could easily end my life. I scramble to my feet, scuttle across the floor, the flour dust and jam and sugar sticking to my hands in clumps. I leave a trail behind me as I go, dark floor below bone white flakes. I don't know what he sees - what he _thinks_ he's seeing. Deep down I'm glad I down. To render someone so down to earth as Peeta into an incomprehensible mass of whimpers and violent outbursts, it must be horrific. He must be so scared... And if we get out of this at all, I know I'll never ask lest it triggers another flashback. "It's not real, Peeta", I try again, rolling his name on my tongue in such a way it gives every meaning of love behind it.

His hands suddenly reach out, his thumbs pressing against the tendons of my neck while his fingers dig into my shoulders. He's fighting between the notion that he could either embrace me or choke me, all the more evident from the way his pupils are dilating and growing at an alarming, unnatural rate. I've seen people high on morphling having less intense a reaction then this. His hold is rigid, akin to someone conducting electricity from a trippy wire down to moist soil. He could snap my collarbone like a twig with his hold. He inhales sharply through pursed lips upon gritted teeth, the sound reminding me of the ocean waves of District 4, and then, with that same feral expression, he murmurs, low: "Not real."

We repeat the words over and over, like a child's play, a game. Who will give up first? Who'll hold their breath the longest or repeat the words the fastest? There's a moment when I don't think it will end. It only lasted a minute or less, but it appeared to stretch far longer. And then, finally, he crumples over onto me, his forehead pressed to my chest before his head slips to my lap, his hands loosening their grip, falling limp at his sides. I feel him quiver and when I reach out to touch his sweat soaked hair, I find even his clothes have gone damp. It breaks my heart, but what really does it for me, what takes me back to the arenas, what takes me back to countless hospitals and the smell of antiseptic cotton and the sound of gunshots, is his voice, boyish and terror-stricken. "Please... Please don't hurt me", he begs me. _He begs me_.

I feel as though I'm made of glass and dropped a hundred feet hole. I shatter. Even years after the war, Snow still has his hold on my life, on the one person remaining that I have no doubt I love. After Prim, Peeta is the only being I can, without a doubt, say I love, and to this day, Snow is still doing his damnest to take him away from me, even from the grave. I struggle to keep steady, brushing strands of hair from his forehead. "Shhh, shhh..."

I hear his voice crack into a sob, clutching at my coat in some attempt to beg me to spare him. But I urge on, the back of my hand caressing his wet cheek, pushing blond curls behind his ear. I tell him to hush again. My voice is soft, soothing. I want - no, I _need_ him to know he's safe with me. I fear he won't ever feel safe with me. I rock back and forth with him, as my mother would cradle me when I was a toddler. It's strange, the things you remember when you're in a distressing situation.

I wish I could calm his frantic heartbeat with my own. I wish I could ease him. I wish I could be his cure.

I take a long, deep, shuttering breath. For a moment I feel my soul lifted from my body, taken away. I see myself on the floor, on my knees, bare chested with Peeta hunched over in a strained position over my lap. And then we're gone. I travel. I travel through lights and voices. Sometimes laughter. It's completely surreal, but here I am, on a stool, standing in front of thirty or so children. I feel the breeze on my cheek from the open window on my left. My mother's tied my hair in two braids that are too tight and it hurts a little. I scan the room. I'm proud. So proud. My father stands at the back with other adults, with other parents. And I see him, proud of me. I smile. He smiles back. My lips part. I inhale. They're all waiting for me to begin.

I do.

"Down in the valley, the valley so low

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow,

Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow;

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,

Angels in Heaven know I love you..."

I feel one particular pair of eyes on me. Something's different about the way the boy looks at me. And then I know why; why that boy with hair as yellow as an oat field, eyes as blue as ice, is different from the others. Light reflects in those eyes, brighter then any of those sitting around him, and then I see the tears slip across cheeks that have grown pink and lips that have turned dark red.

"Know I love you, dear, know I love you,

Angels in Heaven know I love you.

Build me a castle, forty feet high;

So I can see her as she rides by,

As she rides by, dear, as she rides by..."

His lips move, but the voice that escapes them is too deep, holding every quality of a someone who has seen too much, who has suffered limitless lifetimes. "...so I can see her, as she rides by..."

And I continue: "Roses love sunshine, violets love dew; Angels in Heaven know I love you..."

The birds have stopped singing outside. Someone holds onto me. I feel strong arms pull around my waist. When I look down, I'm not in the classroom with my father and the songless birds and the weeping boy. I'm back into the bakery with the weeping man. His trembling has devolved into irregular twitches now, but his tears still flow as strongly as they did on that first day of school. I let my own arms circle him.

"Know I love you, dear, know I love you...", Peeta sings in the confines of my belly where he's buried his face. His voice trembles, changes in pitches, is still unsure, but that he would remember this, that he would sing this for me, with me, makes my heart swell with hope. "Angels in heaven know I love you..."

I move slowly, rubbing his back and playing gently with his hair. I think of the cowards outside. Those who never came and stood by, ignoring Peeta's plea for help. Those who stood by and _watched_. I won't ever blame them for being afraid of me. But to be afraid of Peeta, who has lended more of a hand then anyone in rebuilding District 12 to the point of near exhaustion, and this without being asked or expecting compensation; Peeta, who has re-opened a bakery for them, has even offered free food to those who needed it... _That_, I won't ever forgive. I swallow back my anger, wanting more then anything to get my Peeta back above the ugly words I want to yell to the outside world. "Shhh", I whisper, "Shhh... It's okay."

He looks up at me. The veins in the whites of his eyes have burst and made them pink. He's so pale he looks like a ghost. Even his lips are ash grey in the wake of the light outside. "I'm so sorry, Katniss", he croaks.

"Shhh", I repeat, because I don't know what else to say. I won't have apologies for what isn't his fault. I find myself smiling at him despite the situation. I see it, even in his state. My boy with the bread has returned to me. I cup his cheek, hardly containing my display of emotion, something that would have been unthinkable before the reaping years ago. "Hi."

It takes a moment, but his lips crack into a shadow of a smile. "...hi."

My heart flutters and I think I must look demented with that smile plastered over my face. Later, Peeta will assure me I didn't, but in this moment it feels foreign. It won't leave no matter how much I try. I speak with him softly, nurturing as I did when Prim used to have nightmares. "Stay with me?"

He nods, his lips moving but nothing comes out. I read it well though, since my brain registered it from my sleep syrup indulged state before the Quarter Quell. Always.

We stay like this for what seems like hours. Around us dust begins to settle while the light shifts with the passing of the day. I don't dare move, and I don't think he wants to either. We cling to each other as though letting go will mean he will slip away from me again. Eventually we part, but it's reluctant on both sides.

He looks around at the damage he's done. Tables have been overturned. Chairs are broken. The glass cabinet where cupcakes and danishes lay in the morning is broken, its contents sprawled on the floor. Bags of flour have been gutted and spilled virtually everywhere. Glass jars lie open, torn. Slowly, he stands on his knees, and I see his eyes widen as he assesses what he's done, darkening with guilt. "I'm so sorry...", he whispers. And then he sees the state I'm in, with my shirt ripped at the middle, which I've now closed to cover myself. He grows weary at once, his eyes twice as big as previously."Oh, Katniss... I..."

I shake my head to reassure him. "Don't worry, it's not what you think. Let's go home", I cut in. He can't stay here. I'll lose him again. I can feel him slipping already. It's easier to go elsewhere then see what you've done.

My words ease him some because he seems to relax a bit. He returns his attention to the mess in the bakery. "But... all this..." He doesn't even have the energy to end the sentence.

I stand, which is when my body chooses I don't need the adrenaline anymore. My shoulder erupts in agonizing pain. Somehow I manage to conceal it, instead extending a hand for him to grab onto. "We'll come in the morning. We'll clean it up. Let's just go home. Please." I'm pleading, but I stand firm. He doesn't even hesitate, taking my hand in his, clutching to it as he did earlier, afraid I may disappear.

We stand outside where the wind is even stronger then before. Haven will be on us soon.

And no one is there.

The show's over.

They're all gone.

_End of Chapter 2_


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: This wasn't easy to write and make this believable, something the characters really would do or react to. I do believe Katniss becomes highly dependent later after the war. She struggles with many addictions, one of those being people, most importantly, Peeta._

_Thank you for the kind words and reviews and I hope you will enjoy this chapter as well._

_Luv,_

_Maria_

_**Chapter 3: A Broken Promise**_

I half carry Peeta back to our home in the Victor's Village. His arm is propped around my shoulders, holding on, and mine rings around his waist for support. Suddenly, I feel we're back in the arena and I just dug him out of the mud by the water stream. The village serves to remind me we're in District 12 though. Home. It helps calm my growing sense of paranoia. His leg is killing him and he can't remember why or how he would have injured himself from the knee up. There's a dark maroon patch where the knee stump meets the prosthetic but he assures me we can wait home to look it up. That's the last thing he tells me before we get home. The last thing, in fact, for the reminder of the night until all hell breaks lose.

We cross the square between heavy gusts of wind. He's lent me the vest he walked in with to work, clasped over my front. As we advance, I feel as though some invisible force is trying to keep us from getting to safety. The sky, which was hardly covered when I first walked into the thrashed bakery is now littered in dark ribbons. Dust clouds and dry leaves travel around us, sometimes ram into us with the force of the growing wind. A brown leaf crashes into Peeta's hair, stuck in the blond curls. His blue eyes roll up as if they could have access to the top of his head where that leaf has cast itself a new nest. I expect a smile from him, one that would force my own, but it doesn't come. Instead he stares back ahead or around him without bothering to remove the leaf.

Shops are closed now. It's not exactly time to end the day, but with Haven nearly upon us, they didn't take a chance. Homes have their shutters closed, doors locked. Sometimes I spy a pair of eyes cast upon us. Sometimes an adult. Sometimes it's the innocent curious gaze of a child just as soon pulled back by their parents and scolded for eavesdropping - or for looking at the cursed star-crossed lovers.

When we get to the Victors' Village, I'm not surprised to find Haymitch is on his porch. He's always on his porch although there's not much to see. No one has moved into the Victor's Village. It's been avoided like the plague. The geese were taken out of their enclosure and taken into the shack at the back in light of the storm.

He gives us an inquiring look, but it's unsteady. He's drunk again and even from this distance, the wind carries the smell of liquor he practically sweats. I shake my head. He nods. Even in his drunken stupor he gets it, understands something's happened, and I'm grateful I don't have to answer endless questions. As though he had been waiting for us to return home and is satisfied to see we're in one piece, he stumbles out of the sofa chair and returns to the confines of his dark home. Not one light opens and I'm fairly certain there's not one light bulb in there that still works anyway. Effie's been busy and has not visited in a while. Haymitch thinks we don't notice her strolls through the Districts will generally take her back to his home. He thinks this little path she takes is a secret, but I've found it long before even the Victory Tour. I saw her on it by accident, mind you, but since then I take cruel pleasure in watching her come and go from that path once in a while. I wouldn't think much of her visits if she didn't disappear a couple of days. And despite the obvious, she's been his caretaker: replugging his phone and bringing light bulbs and even, would you believe, cook for him because Greasy Sae doesn't pass by when Effie's there. And she cleans his place as well. Again, something you'd think would be alien to someone like her, but she's far more resourceful then I'd anticipated her to be.

I help Peeta up the steps, hear him hiss. He assures me it's alright with a nod. His eyes, however, tell me nothing is fine. They're glassy, red, with busted veins, and his pupils look like they spread like water blotched paint across the blue of his irises. It looks polluted. I wonder if he's really escaped the episode, if he isn't about to have another flashback and won't tell me so I won't worry. His silence isn't very effective.

I help him back to the couch of the living room and help him sit to the best of my ability. He removes his pants and unlike the first time I saw him without clothes, I don't shy away. The times of prudishness are long over between us. Or rather, with me, since it never was an issue for him.

The wound isn't too deep. Mainly, it looks like he hurt himself on a corner somewhere and it bled more then necessary, probably because he moved around so much in his haste. It's not red at the ridges of the gash so I don't think there's any infection. My mother would know. Prim would know and it only makes my own ache deepen to think this way.

"Maybe we should apply some alcohol and put some bandages on it", I try. It's about as useful as I can be, and even if the wound isn't very deep, I remember the gash in his leg from years ago and I don't know if I'll be able to work a task as simple as this.

A feel his rough, warm fingers brush up my cheek, pushing a loose strand behind my ear. When I look up I feel as though he's not just looking at me, or through me. It's something else entirely: it appears desperate, forlorn and troubled. His fingers linger behind my ear, against my hair. Suddenly he looks like he's overstayed his welcome in a life that has witnessed countless wars. He wets his lips, gives me a smile that should not belong to Peeta Mellark because its melancholy makes me feel like I'm trapped a thousand feet below the waves of an endless black sea.

"I'll do it", he says at last. His first words since the town square. "You're not much of a healer, if I recall correctly." Even his quirky remark rubs me the wrong way; makes me feel like it doesn't belong.

I nod. "Okay. I'll start dinner in the meantime."

"You do that." He kisses the top of my head. Again I feel him lingering there. He pulls away, his eyes still cast on me, heavy, and finally he limps his way upstairs.

I begin by washing the vegetables and chop the meat. I've found that, while I don't hold Peeta's talent for cooking in general, I can hold my own as my mother did. It's edible and no one complains. Not even Haymitch when he strolls by and steals a meal, and lord knows his jaw's slack for unnecessary comments. It takes me twice as long because of my shoulder. I haven't told Peeta, not wanting to add to his obvious guilt. It doesn't look broken or dislocated; probably a strained muscle. I figure I'll see how it is come morning.

All along the chore, I feel the air is tense. In fact, that feeling of growing sorrow I've felt when Peeta touched my cheek earlier has only expended. Something's wrong. Something just isn't right, and it isn't because of the heavy rain and thunder raging outside by now, or the way the trees bend with the violent wind. It's in here. In the house. I can't ignore Peeta's episode, but it feels like it's far beyond even that. It grows on me, envelops me. I feel helpless and the fact that I can't fathom why makes me twice as restless.

What I do next is nothing short of automatism. Vegetables, a salad, meat. I cook what needs to be cooked, boil what needs boiling and chop what needs chopping. My mind wanders. I ask silent questions to no one in particular but my mouth is as sealed as an avox.

I don't even remember setting up the table. I don't remember sitting and eating. Suddenly I'm awake, returned from my waking slumber with a flicker of lights around me. Thunder booms. Utensils rattle and the suspended lamp above sways forward and back with the vibration caused by Haven outside.

My plate is done but I feel empty.

Peeta's plate is full; his seat is empty.

I gaze at the clock mounted on the wall. It's been an hour and a half since he went upstairs to tend to his injury. Not a word from him.

I head up the stairs. I'm running but it all feels as though the invisible hands that tried to prevent me from getting home have returned, this time to keep me from seeing him. There's a lump in my throat. It tastes like lead. He's only sleeping, I tell myself. Worked on his wound, and these last hours have exhausted him. That's all I have to hold onto. "Peeta? _Peeta_!"

I don't want to sound desperate but I know I do. I find him in our bedroom, sitting on the windowsill and watching the storm. Bright flashes of light define him. He looks like a dream as he glances back at me with lips pressed together into a thin line. In his hands is the book we've been working on, the book where he's drawn those we lost and remembered, the book where I wrote their stories. "It was good, wasn't it", he asks softly. I detect a note of grief. I don't like it. None of it. He looks like a ghost of himself and even if we both occupy this room, I feel lonely.

My eyes carry to the bed where a suitcase is laid there, closed and zipped, then back at him. My heart begins beating hard in my chest; resonates into my ears. It pounds in my head and drowns the noise of the rain crashing against the glass. My legs feel weak and my stomach churns as though I have been starving for days on end.

"Why are you talking in the past tense", I ask - no, hiss. It's as venomous as the tracker jacker venom that once coursed through his veins. I already know the answer. It's on the bed, ready to go. As ready as he is.

A muscle ripples across his jaw in the dim light and his eyes, so blue and bright with every flash of lightning, take on a dark undertone. "I have to go, Katniss."

I stump my foot, taking another step forward. "What do you mean you_ have to go_? Where?! Where are you _going_!?"

He sighs, looking down at the book, fingers crisped on the leather cover. "First, my house. When Haven's good and gone I'll call doctor Aurelius to discuss where I can be relocated."

Relocated? No. No, please no...

"I'm coming too!"

He looks up sharply, his voice no longer soft. "No, you're not. You'll stay here. You'll continue hunting, stay away from liquor and morphling! You'll be _safe_! Haymitch will take care of you. I'll talk to him in the morning and make sure of it."

"Safe from _what_?"

He looks at me a long time, silent. His tongue clicks in his mouth. He's struggling to find words. Another bout of thunder growls, making the whole house shake with its ferocity. "Me."

My whole world comes crashing down on me. The signs were there the moment we left the bakery this afternoon. His silence, the way he looked at me, contemplated me, the way he touched me. He was building memories, making them fresh, like taking a photograph. His mind was made up when he said he would take care of his leg on his own. I knew it. I just chose to ignore it. Anger bubbles inside me so suddenly it threatens to rip me apart from the inside.

"No", I respond back bitterly. "Why are you doing this to me now? This isn't the first time you have an episode! We've dealt through them! We'll deal through this one too!" When have I become so vain? Katniss Everdeen, who pledged to save her sister on the reaping of the 74th Hunger Games, is long gone. My independence was ripped away from me, unexpectedly, when I let Peeta in.

By letting my walls down, I've become weak and it's only now that I realize it. It's terrifying.

"No, this was different. It wasn't like the other times. The _things _I wanted to do, Katniss... ", he chokes on his words and he chucks the book away from him like it just burned him. It slides out of sight into the shadows. "You don't _know_, the things that went through my head in the bakery! The things I could have done to you! I remember _every. Single. __**Detail**_!"

The revelation stuns me, but I'm too stubborn to take it in just yet. I can't let him do this. He's my rock. My strength. I don't want him to define the errors of letting someone reach across and take my hand from the solitude I sought before his return to District 12. Because, essentially, this is what it feels like at the moment: a mistake. "I don't care", is all I manage to mutter.

His shoulders slump and I hear a snort coming from him. "I shouldn't have come back", he reflects my state of mind. "I wasn't ready."

We stare at each other a while longer. It feels as though we're both seeking approbation of this. Both wanting this to be the right thing to do and well, let's face it, it is. His flashbacks have been more frequent. More violent. They'd died down a lot the past few months and then, suddenly, it was only escalating into something dangerous. The boy with the bread, with every flashback, was slipping further away from me. Again. "I don't care", I repeat. I don't know what else to say. I'm a selfish being. I've known this from he start, and right now, I don't care about that either.

"What if I wake up in the middle of the night and kill you in your sleep", he tells me, the pain obvious in his voice. "I can't risk that. I love you too much... I can't live like this and neither can you. It was too soon. All of it."

I do the next best thing, the one thing I can muster up from within; my last strain, my last attempt to keep him near. I take a few steps forward, rise on my toes and claim his lips to mine. He's rigid in my grasp and I see, from the corner of my eyes before I close them, his fingers curl into claws. His lips feel cold, chaffed and thin. I can taste the salt of tears he's tried to hide from me by keeping in the shadows of the room. I feel him relax in my embrace and slowly his fingers trace the outlines of my shoulders, brush through my hair, twirls my braid between his fingers. His kiss is faint, but it's there. My heart grows restless but there's a light of hope that carries with it.

And then he pulls away, shakes his head in the darkness, destroys the hope born from his touch and his responding lips on mine.

The hopeless rage that threatened to burst earlier finally spills, and I utter a frustrating shriek that builds from the bottom of my spine and ends somewhere in the void Peeta's created between us. I grab something, anything my fingers come in contact with and throw it across the room. I hear it shatter, pieces crashing to the floor, bright with the next flash from outside.

I hear Peeta say something. _I have to go_, I think he says. I hurry after him because despite his bad leg, he's gone down those steps a whole lot faster then I expected. I follow him, trip in my steps in my haste. I feel pathetic - silly, stumbling down those steps and crashing into the wall. All I want now is to curl up in that corner and wither away. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have ever dream he'd never get fed up with me like everyone else?

I hear sobbing, a strange sound that I've heard one too many times since the end of the war. Since Prim's death. It catches in my throat, rubs grains of sands across my wind pipe. Peeta looks at me with concern, his lips pressed together and his eyes crystal clear, like fine water. He looks like he's struggling not to come to me. I'm not hurt. Rather, I can't feel anything but the pain inside, my lungs coated with burning dust. When did I become so pathetic? When I get up, it seems to ease him some - the fall didn't hurt me - and he turns back to the door.

He reaches for the knob.

I make one last attempt. "Peeta!"

He stops, his hand lingering on silver, but he doesn't look back. He's waiting and I take my chance.

"You said '_always_'!"

His hand twitches, and then his shoulders slump in defeat. "I know... I'm sorry, Katniss."

He turns the knob and I know it's over. The sound of the storm outside drowns my sobbing and it's just as well. Gale was right. I've chosen the one I can't survive without and I know that the moment Peeta closes the door behind him, I'll have nothing left to live for. He's committing murder in his own way, and he's still amazingly gentle about it. And I hate him so much for it. I just want to hurt him as he's hurt me, slap and scratch and bite at him like a wild animal.

When he doesn't budge from the entrance, when he lets rain slip past him into the front parlor and humid heat seep into the house, I yell with a coarse and tired voice, wavering between anguish and fury. My heart is broken. "Well go already! Get out!"

The voice that returns to me is not Peeta's. It's a deep woman's voice. "Are you Peeta Mellark?"

I squint my eyes and rub away at the blinding tears. A strike of lightning bathes everything in white light and now I see it - her: a tall, imposing cloaked figure towers over Peeta by at least half a foot if not more. Her frame is large enough that he can't go around her; she's effectively blocking his path.

"Yes", he responds gravely. He takes a step back, drops the suitcase, and I know that already he's stepping between the giant woman and me. Even now he seeks to protect me and I'm not sure how I feel about it. "What of it?"

"I have something for you", she says.

When her hand disappears into her cloak, I know we're both dead.

_End of Chapter 3_


	4. Chapter 4

_Note: Sorry it took a while, and I'm aware it isn't a very long chapter. Still, thank you so much for all the amazing reviews and all the followers. It means a whole lot and I'm glad you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you!_

_**Chapter 4: The Reaper**_

When I was a child, when Prim was a little over two years old and my father was still alive, I had a friend who was my age, Basil Conher. We'd spend a fair amount of time together, playing and telling each other stories. One afternoon, we met behind the wooden fence that separates the Seam from the main town. It was a place we often rested at, mainly because of the plum and cherry tree that boarded it at the far side. We ate them until the peacekeepers found out about it and removed the trees.

On that day, he brought a book he said once belonged to his many great-grand-mothers. It was a storybook crafted before Panem was built; Old and worn out, the pages yellowed by time, the images had long lost their bright tints. I remember being mesmerized by the fact that someone well before our time, before the world went out the deep end, before the Districts and the Hunger Games and the Capitol, had held this book, read the words and turned the pages as I did. The concept itself made me feel as though I could travel in time and accentuated dreams and questions of the past.

The first story had a cover image that to this day is still crystal clear in my head. A tall, lengthy being with thin appendages, its fingers like dry branches wrapped around a scythe with a blade that could cut through pavement as it would paper. It... He was hooded, a cloak clasped at his front. Black. All black. His face was concealed in shadows. I remember feeling uneasy just looking at the image, but that wasn't the worst. It was the story. It was a story about death. How this creature came and took people away; put them into the soil for their eternal sleep. No matter how much these people begged for mercy, it took them anyway: young and old alike.

After three sleepless nights too terrified to close my eyes because I was convinced the cloaked man would take me away, my mother forbade me to speak to Basil again.

The black cloaked man was called the Reaper. It would become ironic later, when I would turn twelve and faced my first Reaping. The analogy would hit me as I would stand under the burning sun of summer, sweating and mortified at the idea that my name could escape Effie Trinket's purple lips. It wasn't so much the games I feared, but leaving Prim behind while my mother despaired with the strain of my father's death.

Basil's name was drawn out. He walked to the stage with twitching hands, clearly losing his sanity with every new step he took in the dry earth. I remember how we locked eyes shortly, and how hollow with despair they looked in the moment. He burst into tears when the mayor told him to shake hands with the girl tribute. A career killed him before he reached the Cornucopia, a career with a black hooded vest, pulled tight over his head and casting his features in shadows. It scared me so much, how the tale of the Reaper superimposed itself so well with Basil's fate, that I didn't sleep for weeks.

Years later, I'm returned to that same feeling of fear I felt when reading the story, when watching Basil walk on stage and later get his throat ripped apart, because what I see here, hovering over Peeta, is the Reaper. My heart drums in my chest, drowns Peeta's howl of fury. It's so sudden, so unexpected in contrast to how tired he looked only moments before, that I gasp in surprise. It takes me a moment to take in the scene: Peeta struggles to close the door on the towering figure, screams with the force he uses to hold her back. But it's no use. His leg impairs him, his latest episode exhausted him, and he doesn't have the will of strength to keep her from coming in. She's shouting at him but I can't make it out through the sound of the hailing rain and the constant rumbling.

A flash of lightning blinds me, followed immediately by the deafening blast. When I manage back to my senses again, Peeta's sprawled on the ground and the woman is advancing on him with renewed confidence.

I forget the bakery, the District people, the fight, Peeta leaving me. I forget it all because in that instant my survival instincts, and that need to save him, have all kicked in. I rush to the kitchen in a few long steps and grab the sharpest knife that first grabs my attention: the one I was cutting meat with and left to dry on the counter during my earlier daze. The blade is still covered in the dry blood of the wild turkey I was chopping apart two hours ago. I smell it, salty, and it ignites a fire I didn't remember I had: the adrenaline rush that drove me through both arenas and the Capitol during the Rebellion.

I return to the parlor and Peeta's still on his back, legs hunched up and propped on his elbows. The woman bends down, readies herself to finish what she started. She's not looking at me and it's the moment I take to throw myself at her. Either I make too much noise or she saw me coming, because her large hand wraps around my wrist before I have time to cause any damage. And then what I see is a blur of dim greys and blacks as everything around me spins before I'm slammed into the wall by the opened door.

"_Katniss_", Peeta shouts.

"Drop the knife, girl", the woman snarls by my ear. She holds my arm up behind my back and squeezes at the nerves at my wrist, playing with the tendons like it's a musical instrument. I don't listen, my anger at this stranger invading my home all that I know, all that I breathe.

"Katniss, _drop_ the knife", Peeta calls to me. His voice brings me back into focus. No, not so much his voice as his tone. It's calm and soft, reassuring. I want to yell at him for it, but when our eyes meet I see that the alarm he felt, that I still feel, isn't present. Slowly, he gets up and brings his hands forward as though I'm an animal gone wild. I suppose he isn't half wrong but the analogy makes me a little uneasy.

"Drop the knife", he repeats with a firm hand on my shoulder.

I quell my struggling, but I'm taken by heavy tremors, my fingers crisped around the handle as his were in the bakery. My muscles are so rigid that loosening my grip makes me cringe with pain that carries all the way up to my elbow. The woman shifts with the sound of the blade hitting the floor. My jaw's clenched so tight that my whole skull hammers and my eyes feel on fire. I don't understand why Peeta would ask me this, why he isn't fighting the woman off me. Does him leaving mean he doesn't care at all anymore? The thought forces a noise of desperation out of me. Just this afternoon I was eating stew at Greasy Sae's after my stroll in the woods. In less then half a day I've nearly been killed by Peeta, he's decided to leave me, and a stranger who looks like death has come to be the end of us and he doesn't seem to find this very alarming.

I wait for the blow. I wait for it to end. I'm so tired. I thought I was making progress but in a few hours I've taken miles and miles of back steps. And just as those poisonous thoughts swirl in my head, the woman's strong grip is released and the front door closes, effectively drowning the noise of hailing rain and howling winds. Slowly, I look over my shoulder. She's still there, the cloak, now I see is made of pelts, darkened by the rain. She drops her hood. As soon as I can take in her features, I'm taken aback by the familiarity of her. It's so strong it nearly knocks the wind out of me, and yet I can't place where we've met. Not in the storybook, obviously. Now that I see her clearly, she's no Reaper.

Peeta's hands come upon my shoulders, wrap around the thinness of them. He's either steadying me or keeping me from charging again and frankly, I'm not sure what I could do either. It's ironic to think that a few hours ago he was the unstable one and I was keeping him steady and now it's a roles' reversal. Wonders never seize.

The woman stands tall, almost defiant, yet amidst the coal black eyes I notice something undeniable: tenderness. It's the kind of beauty you see in mothers and sisters, the kind I once held for Prim.

"I'm not your enemy", she says with her deep voice. Rain water glistens into her crop short hair, falls in glimmering streaks upon her dark skin. She reaches into her fur cloak and I feel Peeta's hand crisp over my shoulder to hold me in place. When she returns, it's not a weapon she presents, but an old wooden box, resting in the pale shape of her hand. After what seems like long minutes, Peeta's the one who takes it. It looked small in her hand, but Peeta has to hold it between both of his.

"My name is Tisha", she says evenly. "I came a long way to give you this. I didn't mean to scare you", she takes a quick glance at the suitcase by the door, and a flash of understanding carries across her dark eyes. "I see I've come at an unfortunate time. Again, I apologize."

Peeta blinks, all antagonizing emotions drained out of him, glancing from the giant woman to the suitcase and back. In that moment he seems torn while he sways the box between his hands.

The box is simple, shaped from a trunk with holes within. It was as if whoever crafted it wanted to keep it as natural as it could possibly be. It's not varnished, and the smell of pine is very strong. Still, despite all this, I'm silent. Distrustful. Peeta, on the other hand, seems amazingly calm considering what just transpired.

"Um... Well, thank you", he says then, moving the box between his fingers, inquiring. Before he can ask what the box contains, the woman requests to remove the wet pelt at her back. I open my mouth, ready to refuse, but Peeta speaks well before I can, inviting her inside. I give him a long gaze. Has he forgotten how, a few moments ago he was leaving this home? How he was leaving me to myself? How much he hurt me? He side glances quickly at me, thinking I didn't notice but I did, and with this simple, subtle gesture, I understand what he's doing: even after all this, he's making sure nothing will happen to me. He's protecting me from that familiar woman and her mysterious box. I decide to take it for now. I don't forget, but I cast it aside, if only because I can have him by my side a while longer. If only to pretend. It's selfish and I'll be honest, I don't care. If we're still alive later, I'll face the consequences then.

I stay quiet, looking down at my feet and shaking my head. Does he know her? Does she seem as familiar to him as she does to me? He appears as baffled as me, at the very least.

She removes her cloak and settles it on a hanger, and then meticulously sets her boots below. I'm surprised at how casual she looks now that's she's removed the pelt, however there's no mistaking the strong frame of this giant. She could crush both Peeta and I under one arm. Simultaneously.

She lets her eyes wander a moment, wetting thick lips. "So, this is a Victor's house, hm? My brother would have hated it. I guess his defeat wasn't such a bad thing, when you put it that way." A hint of a smile.

Peeta's watching her as intently as I while he invites her to the living room, not opening the box either because he wants to wait for her to tell him to open it, or because he's afraid of what he'll find inside. She's looking everywhere at once, reminding me of an amazed child in a giant's body. She looks gentle despite how obviously strong she is. And amazingly enough, as she walks, she makes no noise. Even the floor doesn't creek beneath her bare feet.

And suddenly, I know who she is. I know where I've seen her before. My head spins and instinctively I grab Peeta's arm for support, using him as my mental crutch. His brows furrow, a muscle rippling across his jaw in concentration.

"Who was your brother", he asks in a small voice.

My nails dig into Peeta's arm, a strong sense of guilt and sadness bursting from the pit of my stomach. It's so obvious now. She looks just like him, her voice sounds similar, her manners. All of it. And I respond before she can, hearing myself from a hundred miles away. "_Thresh_... Thresh was your brother. You were on the stage during the Victory Tour of the 74th Hunger Games."

She makes a full blown smile in response.

_**End of Chapter 4**_


	5. Chapter 5

Note: Sorry it took so long to write and post this. Writer's block sucks! Thanks for the amazing reviews still! I'm very happy you all enjoy this story so much.

_**Chapter 5: The Angel**_

"Katniss." A pause. "Katniss." Another pause, this one longer. "Katniss, you're hurting me."

Peeta. My gaze releases the woman, Tisha, at last, and follows where my hand grasped and pinches Peeta's arm into a deathlock. My knuckles are white and his skin where I am squeezing has gone colorless. With a quick intake I let him go, feeling apologetic but unable to form words.

Panic seizes me like a vice, wrapping my heart in barbed wire. She looks powerful. She looks strong. More than that, she's proven herself capable of strength similar to her brother. Where her brother was merciful, I fear she won't be so much. I caused the death of her family. I caused so much pain.

As if reading my thoughts, she softens further, makes herself smaller somehow. I don't know how she does it, except I can only think of a deflated balloon. It isn't to that extreme, obviously, but it's the first thing that comes to mind. "I'm not going to hurt you. I didn't come all this way for that. If anything, I owe you my life, and my freedom. Thanks to you, my dream of being a traveler have come to fruition. I owe you everything and more."

I feel my cheeks burn and I bite my lip. It's all I can do. My voice, for now, is gone.

But with that fact laid out, there's a new found lightness in the air despite the crushing humidity of the ongoing storm. Where she looked powerful and dangerous moments before, now she radiates protection, motherhood and for that, she's magnificent. I'm a little jealous of how easily she makes herself a trustworthy person. I've never been like that. That was Prim's ability - not that she had to try.

I stare at this woman in awe, wondering how she can be so powerful when she wears such dim and boring clothes. And yet I can't help but stare, because what I see there, completely, is Thresh. I see him in her eyes, in the way she stands, in the way her hands hang lose at her sides, slightly arched, large yet gentle.

There is, however, a significant difference. Unlike Thresh, when she smiles – which he hardly did to begin with – it spreads to her eyes. The fear and rush I felt earlier vanish with it.

Peeta's smile is broad, his shoulders straight as he holds onto that wooden box. I remember seeing a similar one back in the Hob when I was fourteen. Inside was the little figurine of a girl in a dress, her arms arched above her head. She swirled and turned on her pedestal in front of the small mirror to the chimes of a little melody made of enchanting bells. The vendor told me it was an old relic, found in the rubble of the ruins of North America before it was called Panem, and they called it a music box. I remember thinking how Prim would have loved it, and so I saved for it so I could get her that music box for her birthday, or maybe Christmas, but by the time I gathered enough money, it had been sold. Now I wonder if this isn't another music box, though I can't understand why she'd defy the wrath of Haven to bring us a child's toy.

"Your brother was a good man", Peeta says. He's beaming. So different then earlier that I feel a short pang of jealousy in my gut. I want to remind him that less then fifteen minutes ago he was walking out that door, but I fear saying it would prompt him to do good on the action. So I don't mention it and grip his arm again, but in a different area, away from the redness I caused moments before.

"He was", Tisha admits with a dreamy voice, like she's elsewhere, and then returns to us.

I remember Tisha, standing beside the old, crippled woman on stage, how they stood proud yet clearly hurt. I didn't know their name back then and only now do I realize it. Only years later am I allowed the knowledge. I didn't kill Thresh. He let me live. But he might have had a chance at winning. A real chance, if he'd killed me when he had me stunned. The Gamemakers would have found another way to make an amazing finale. And then, on stage, Peeta and I managed to get people executed in front of the crowd only because we spoke our mind, only because Peeta wished to be kind and honor Thresh and Rue's death.

My fear of her returns. I can't help it. It gnaws at my bones as vultures would. I am made of fear these days. I am, for lack of better words, pathetic... She's braved Haven to bring us a gift, clearly, but I can't wrap my mind around it. Surely there's something more to it! I'm terrified of what could be in the box. I want him to give it back. I want him to throw it out. I don't want it near him, near us anymore. And yet unlike me, Peeta is calm, his demeanor strong, as he always was on stage, always controlling the situation, always the one with words. Unlike me, he isn't weary of her smile, isn't paranoid there could be a carefully hidden darkness behind it.

In a voice far more soothing than the hiss she brought to my ear when I still held onto the knife, Tisha adds: "It destroyed Granna when Thresh died, but I suppose that couldn't be helped. He would have been happy that you made it as Victors and she understood that. What you did, back then, wishing to give us part of your rations, that was extremely brave."

"Ah, well...", Peeta rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks slightly flushed. He looks like himself now, with that touch of shyness, with that way he has to be liked by everyone. "I wish it would have worked. It didn't quite go according to plan..."

She shakes her head and raises her hand in a stop motion. "You couldn't have predicted what would happen. But you did show the people of District 11, and mostly, my and Rue's family, that your heart was in the right place." She raps her fist against her chest, where her own heart lies. I hear her fist pound on the hollow of her rib cage, strong and proud. It feels like this gesture means a whole lot more; something like the three finger salute.

This makes Peeta smile further. It's a shy curl of the lips with such innocence and pride he appears to glow in the dimness provided by the night. And he should be proud. His plan didn't work, that is true, but he meant what he said when he wanted to give those rations. He simply gave too much credit to the political wheel of the Capitol. Nevertheless, it makes my heart pound when I see that smile. I haven't seen it since... I haven't seen it since that time on the roof when he told me he wanted to freeze that very moment forever.

Peeta springs to life then, leaving me with nothing to hold onto anymore as he makes his way to the kitchen. He offers her something to eat and she accepts it gratefully. From the looks she gives the cheese buns he's made this morning ( he made them before leaving for the bakery, instructing me when to move them out of the oven before I would leave to hunt ) she hasn't had anything freshly baked in a while. She ate one in silence, admiring it like it was some ancient relic of the past. Like it was that book I'd held in my hands when my age wasn't even counted in the two digits.

We let her eat while I ache to grip onto Peeta again. I don't. I stand by his side, giving him side glances he either doesn't notice or won't make a move to show he has. Either way... Either way I think the last twelve hours have been a little eventful for my liking.

Except it's not about to slow down. Peeta hasn't even opened the box just yet, and frankly, I don't know what I think of it now. Do I still think this may be an antagonizing ploy? Everyone's a con artist these days, so I don't know. I just know Tisha really is Thresh's sister and that she seems genuinely thankful for our failed attempt at kindness. What scares me is that no one realizes that while Peeta was being the savior, I really was trying to abide to President Snow's wishes. Nobody told them that of course and I wonder if she would be so kind if she knew.

I feel a lump in my throat at the thought, a weave of roses and blood perfumes my peripherals, and I push it away before the usual gagging motion begins. I'm relieved to hear her speak again once she's downed one of the buns so fast I don't think bothered to chew.

"Thank you", she bows her head respectfully, then looks at me. She can sense my hesitation and fear. I know it. It makes me jittery. I don't know what to do with my hands and all I find to do it grip the counter in an awkward manner that is all but natural, shooting a string of pain to my injured shoulder. "You need to give yourself more credit. You made a miracle happen, you know."

Me? Made a miracle happen? I'm fairly certain I had very little to do with it. I was nothing but a figure used as propaganda; another Finnick Odair, stripped of who I was to serve a purpose I had nothing to do with. My involvement included the death of too many, Peeta's hijacking, Prim's death... I shot Coin. Despite her motives, it is nothing to be proud of. I took a life and with it, a part of my soul, as Peeta once let Ceasar Flickerman know. Why it was such a wonder to him and the people of the Capitol still mystifies me years later. I always figured they watched and enjoyed the games for that very fact: because they got to watch children lose their humanity, and it made them feel a cruel, perverse pleasure in that knowledge, all the while staying safe and cozy in their homes. The way they reacted to Peeta's confession, it seemed like such an unthinkable thing that we would not be as amused as they were, that we were in pain, afraid, hurt in the arenas. The thought makes me feel nauseous.

"Smile, girl. It looks better on you."

I blink. Peeta bursts into good nature laughter. "She's right."

I scoff and shrug, and finally, I dare ask the million dollar question. "What's in the box?"

Her smile broadens and she picks another bun. This time she takes her time with it, spreading it in half and then ripping small pieces she moves to her mouth with more tact than the starving giant she had been prior. "It's for your head, boy." Silence highlights the confusion. She takes notice and goes on. "We have the biggest concentration of Tracker Jacker nests in Panem because of the fields. The Capitol would even have us harvest their honey. You can guess we lost a lot of people every year over that." She sighs, the memory clearly weighing heavy on her shoulders. She pushes another piece of bun in her mouth, chews slowly like it's a form of therapy. "District 11 is also where, from the Dark Days, the Capitol did their experiments with the bees. Long story short, this is also where, in time, the natives discovered a way to counter the stingers and their effects. In your case, it would ease a lot of it. Think of it as coating an ulcer. The problem is that it takes a year to sit in exact conditions. Granna passed away six months ago so I took care of it until it was ready."

I am stunned. For the first time Peeta is without words, looking at that wooden box like it was sent from a high being from above. I don't blame him, because I don't exactly know what to say either. Could this be for real? A cure? For Peeta's highjacking? Could this really quell the voices? End the violent urges? I feel overwhelmed. If this is true, if this is real, here's someone I could never live long enough to repay in full.

"T-Thank you", Peeta stammers. He doesn't look at her. I don't think he can and I notice his hands shaking, making the box rattle faintly. "You didn't have to... I..."

"And you didn't have to help any of us, but you did", Tisha told him firmly. "This is something Thresh would have wanted too. And little Rue."

"Thank you", I repeat Peeta's words, but it's hardly a whisper. I barely heard it myself, so I try again but it doesn't seem any louder, that ball of emotions in my throat blocking my vocal cords.

Peeta looks up quickly, blinking tears that threaten to fall down his cheeks. "I don't know how I could ever... I mean... I... " His voice cracks and he clears it, swallowing. "Do you want to stay for dinner...? I could fix something... S-Something bigger..."

Stuffing the last piece of bread in her mouth, she gets up from the stool and makes her way to the door where the pelt she wore is suspended. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Your bread was good and filled me well. But there's a lot more to see out there and I don't want to miss a thing."

"But the storm", Peeta interjects.

She waves a dismissive hand. "I've had to work in much worse. Do not worry about me. I did my deed and now it's time for me to go."

I can't believe I thought of her as a harmful person moments before. How could I? But this is what I am. Distrustful to the end. It doesn't make it right, but I've come to accept it. "If you ever need anything else...let us know. Or...just come by and see us again", I say, low. This is the first time in years that I have willfully invited someone in my household.

She nods as she pulls the pelts over her shoulders. "'ll keep that in mind. Don't forget to smile, girl." She smiles herself, yellowed teeth between chocolate lips, then pulls the cloak over her head, casting her features in shadows once more. As if on cue there's a bright flash, but thunder comes much later this time. She opens the door and disappears into the storm.

She won't come back. I know she won't. There's too much to see out there. Panem isn't the only landmass left out there and she's intent on finding out what else there is.

Peeta closes the door slowly, fighting a bit against the wind, and it's only as he collapses into a sobbing mass that I realize that this woman was far from death...

... but an angel.

_**End of Chapter 5**_


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